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Mustang Island, the third album from Austin-based band Little Mazarn, is a gentle force. Waves of grief crest like surf on the Texas coast. Wild horses break through long-shuttered gates, only to come back around. Lead songwriter, vocalist, and multi-instrumentalist Lindsey Verrill (she/her) joins bandmates jeff Johnston (he/him) and Carolina Chauffe (they/thern), The tensong, collection continues work with Dear Life Records. A full-throated romp through the capabilities of community-minded songcraft, Mustang Island is both naturalistic and futuristic, completely recasting Little Mazarn's origins in primitive folk. Instead, the band reaches towards sonic experimentation and spacious expansion. Lindsey's heart-opening vocals and jeff's singing saw, both trademarks of the project, mix with unexpected bombastic drums, dissonant synthesizers, and a chorus of orchestral oddities. This mid-career ode dances confidently in the creative liberties granted by decades in the game - more dazzlingly lively, and honestly somber, than ever before. The band's crossroads branch across prominent Southern outsider music: On cello, Lindsey has recorded with Patty Griffin and Dana Falconberry. The longtime side player wouldn't write her first song until age 34, Jeff has played in Bill Callahan's band, as well as with LIl Capin Travis and Orange Mothers. Carolina is known for prolific solo project hemlock, Little Mazarn has also collaborated with Lomelda to release their last EP, Honey Island General store (2023), following past LPs Texas River Song (2022) and lo (2019). Alongside silliness and reverence, including covers from Kate Wolf and Bob Wills * His Texas Playboys, griet directs much of Mustang Island. Lindsey left her job of seventeen years teaching cello at a local school, Recording also aligned with the passing of Jeff's facher, a career educator in Jeff and Lindsey's hometown of Dallas. "Grief, and the avoidance of grief, is a big part of being human," says Lindsey. "You make a choice, and then you grieve for the other choice. Or you finish a meal and literally grieve that it was so good. If you really befriend griet, you re like, 'Oh, it's here, in this pancake, which I loved so much that I ate the whole thing, and now it's gone.**

If you made music the way you cook, what would it sound like? For this tape compilation, we invited artists to consider the connection between food and sound, music and cooking. We envisioned an assorted mixtape—an auditory cookbook, of sorts—of songs, poems, field recordings, and aural experiments, inspired by recipes, food preparation processes, dishes, and the experience of eating. We asked: How does attention to sound—the sputtering of the oil, the popping of the kernels, the hum of a rolling boil, the repetitive thump of a mixer—help you to be a better cook? Consider how these rhythmic, arhythmic, polyrhythmic, and droning sounds might inspire your recording. What would an audio recipe sound like? Can you set a rhyming recipe to music? How is a recipe like a musical score? Where do you find space for improvisation between the notes and instructions? What is “jazz baking”? Could the multivocality of a community cookbook be translated by a choir? What food or dish or process is deserving of an ode? What do you like to listen to when you’re in the kitchen? Write a benediction song that can be sung by a group before a meal. After over a year in which dining together en masse was not possible, what is it about the experience of collective eating that you want to express gratitude for? What is your food hymn? Together the compiled tracks–or ingredients, if you will–deepened and expanded our original vision, mixing, cooking, and baking together in a hearty, warm, and inventive aural menu for the most nourishing of communal meals.